Twist of Fate
by Vathara
Summary: The Fates try to give Jim and Blair a typical vacation... too bad they're on Hawke's turf. Crossover with Sentinel.


****

Twist of Fate

A/N: Airwolf belongs to Bellisario and Universal, The Sentinel belongs to Pet Fly, UPN, and Paramount, the Real Ghostbusters to Columbia/DIC. No infringement is intended for any of these. Airwolf is AU: I've moved events in the series ahead about two decades, and upgraded the Lady. For those unfamiliar with Airwolf, she's a super-secret stealth helicopter flown by Stringfellow Hawke, Dominic Santini and Caitlin O'Shannessy at the orders of CIA/Firm deputy director Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III, code-named Archangel. The Real Ghostbusters was a cartoon about a group of guys who chase ghosts (and sometimes other psychic phenomena) throughout NYC, and occasionally other places around the world. If you don't know the Sentinel - get thee to the Cascade Library, go! www.skeeter63.org/tslibrary/

*****

In a place of light stand slim figures in robes; one carrying a spindle, another scissors, a third twisting threads absently around her fingers. Call them Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Call them Urthr, Verthandi, and Skuld. Call them the Morae, the Sisters, the Fates. 

Call them in one _heck_ of a lot of trouble.

I ASSUME YOU HAVE AN EXPLANATION FOR THIS.

Skuld's threads slipped. "Ah, Boss. How was your trip? Did you bring back anything good? I hear the weather's hot down there this time of year - course the weather's pretty hot there no matter what time of year-"

"Except where it's cold," Verthandi put in.

"Or some of those places where it's just plain _nasty_-" Urthr started.

ZIP IT. Somewhere not too far off (and way too close, as far as the Fates were concerned), pages rustled. OH. MY. 

"It's not our fault, Boss," Skuld said quickly. "I mean, these things happen, it's our job...."

Verthandi elbowed her. "Boss, we're sorry, ok? They looked a lot alike."

Urthr nodded, ticking off the relevant points on her spindle. "Shining with Goodness, attract trouble, carrying a curse, protected by Michael the Archangel...."

COLDSMITH-BRIGGS IS A LOT OF THINGS, BUT AN ANGEL HE'S NOT. Papers rattled. START TALKING. NOW. 

Skuld drew in a breath. "Well, we knew we had to get on the ball when they hit the woods...."

*****

"Cell phone?"

"Check." 

"GPS locator?"

"Check." 

"Emergency medical kit?"

"Check. Will you relax, Chief?" Jim Ellison eyed his fidgeting partner. Blair Sandburg had one hand tangled in his backpack strap, winding and unwinding a loose tie around his fingers. Dark curls were even more frizzed out than usual; a sure sign his partner was half-ready to jump out of his skin. 

"Relax?" Blair waved at their tree-filled California surroundings. Cold Creek hugged the edge of the San Gabriel Mountains, nestled into the Angeles National Forest. It could have been any small town, except for the number of helicopters parked on the nearby airfield. One was a particularly sporty job; red and white striped, trailing into white-on-blue stars down the tail, _Santini Air_ a jaunty airbrush on its side. "We're on vacation, and you expect me to relax?" 

Jim mentally rolled his eyes. Mid-semester break had seemed like the perfect time to haul his partner away from the grind of police work on top of teaching anthropology at Rainier. And California had seemed like the perfect place. No courses, no cops, no criminals they'd ever even been vaguely associated with. 

Only his partner was going to strangle himself before he even got a chance to unwind. "Blair. Breathe."

"Go ahead and laugh." With difficulty, Blair untangled his arm from the errant strap. "Just remember, Jim. Whenever we get this close to this many trees, trouble _always _shows up."

Seeing the horde of motorcycles ranged before what seemed to be the only bar in town, Jim had to agree.

*****

BIKERS? Pure incredulity. YOU COULDN'T THINK OF ANYTHING BETTER THAN BIKERS? 

"Hey!" Urthr stomped an indignant foot. "We can only work with what's there, right? Minimal interference?" 

AND YOU _MISSED?_

"It's not as easy as it sounds...."

*****

Arms full of groceries, Stringfellow Hawke stalked by Macy's Bar and Grill in what could only charitably be described as a bad mood. 

This wasn't exactly unusual. With a population hovering somewhere on the low side of 780 (just over it if an errant pilot and family wandered through), Cold Creek was far too crowded to be comfortable. It had electricity. Cable. A road to L.A.

The sooner he was back in the air and out of here, the better. 

"Face like that, time you get that milk back to Le Van, it'll all be sour." 

String's shoulders relaxed at that chuckle. He'd almost forgotten he wasn't shopping alone. "Wish St. John had a better place to leave him." 

"What better place?" Red hair tossed back, revealing a wry glint in Caitlin O'Shannessy's blue eyes. "He knew us first. And we're not _supposed_ to be busy." Her eyes rolled. 

String almost grinned. Half Santini Air thought the other half wasn't in the spy business anymore. They were wrong... but String wasn't about to clue them in on that. 

Cait's gaze turned sympathetic. "Really hate being in town, don't you?" 

"It's just... loud." 

Caitlin nodded, shifting her grip on her own share of the load. "Loud and bright and _itchy_. I hear you." Her eyes went distant as she tuned in the grumble of a distant garbage truck; she shook it off. "I can take it on the set. Out here-" 

Metal _clanged_, abusing sore ears. Steel alloys shrieked and snarled, crashing to the sidewalk in a cat's-cradle of wheeled rubber. 

"Dang!" A bare whisper through the ringing in String's ears as Cait danced back from the clattering pile. Five Harley motorcycles sprawled over the walk, tangled in an unknown number of lesser breeds. "What're they doing here?"

"Let's not find out." String turned back toward the general store-

And ran face-to-chest into a mass of zippered leather. 

String glanced up.

Bloodshot eyes glared down. A low snarl rumbled from a hairy throat; much like one of the brown bears that occasionally wandered near his cabin on Eagle Lake. 

Only bears didn't travel with backup. 

__

This just isn't my day.

*****

__

Links activated.   
Link I.D.s: _Pilot, Hawke, Stringfellow; Pilot, O'Shannessy, Caitlin.   
Psychic scans indicate anxiety.   
Probable cause: Unknown.   
Explore links._

Hidden away, a meditating A.I. was yanked to full alertness. Airwolf stretched, reaching out to find the cause of her pilots' distress. 

__

Analyzing patterns adrenaline/fear/deliberate calm. Probable cause: Close-quarters combat.   
Intermittent pain transmissions. Revising analysis: Hand-to-hand combat.   
Pilot hazard. Threat to Airwolf survival.

She wasn't supposed to take off without a pilot at the controls. Even if she did, she was too far away. The fight would be over before she could cover twenty miles.

__

Check GPS locations: Pilots Michael, Archangel; Santini, Dominic.

Dominic was closer. But if this were an organized attack, Archangel had more resources.

__

Activate links: Santini, Dominic; Michael, Archangel.   
Transmit anxiety/String/Caitlin/present location: Transmitting.

*****

Fist met flesh with a meaty _smack_. The struck biker let out a howl, reaching for the dark blond who'd ducked the first biker's blow. Jim reached for his backup gun, swore as his fingers touched empty holster. "Chief, call-"

Huddled behind the nearest pickup, Blair was already dialing. "Jim, you're not - Jim, we can't - Jim, don't-"

Too late. His partner waded into the brawl, dodging fists and slugging jaws. And looking entirely too happy about it. "You couldn't get your adrenaline from a roller coaster?" Blair muttered.

"Cold Creek Sheriff's Department," came the dispatcher's bright voice. "Deputy Green here."

Great. Just great. The bikers probably outnumbered the local cops. "We've got an assault in progress in front of-" the anthropologist risked a quick peek up. "Macy's Bar and Grill. At least ten on three - oh hell, someone just pulled a _knife_-" 

The redhead and her partner cut loose. 

Glittering metal flew sideways, embedded itself in the bar's log wall. Bones crunched. Bodies flew. 

By the time wailing sirens pulled up, it was all over but the groaning. 

"Police!" Small-town or no, the two cars leveled guns over the remnants of the brawl calmly as anything he'd seen in Cascade. "Everybody, freeze!"

Blair gingerly edged out of cover. Five bruised bikers slouched with hands raised, three were clutching various broken bones, two were flat out cold in the tangle of bikes, and - was that guy _embedded_ in the window? "Ah, hi. Blair Sandburg. I called you - believe or not, we didn't start this-" 

"Ease up, son. We'll sort this out." The balding sheriff whistled, surveying the wreckage. "Hawke?"

The dark-haired man leaned back against the bar wall, hissing as he fingered a ring-gashed cheek. "Hey, Quinn." 

"Should've known." A pair of wide-eyed deputies moved in behind Sheriff Quinn, locking cuffs on anything in leather. "Ms. O'Shannessy?" 

"I'm okay." The sweaty redhead fell back beside Hawke, hands shaking. Cans and bags were scattered at the edge of the chaos; a white puddle leaked over concrete. "We're gonna have to go back for more milk." 

"Damn."

"Statement first, Hawke. You know the drill." Quinn turned away from them. "And who would you be, sir?" 

Jim worked bruised fingers, carefully got out his license. "Jim Ellison." He nodded toward the bikers. "It looked like bad odds." 

"Washington." The sheriff lifted a skeptical brow. "Visiting?"

"Vacation." 

Blair made his way to his partner's side, watching Hawke and O'Shannessy pick up their scattered groceries unmolested by the deputies. "Um... what about them?" 

"Hawke never starts a fight." 

Blair glanced over the carnage as an ambulance pulled up._ I can see why_. 

"Detective Ellison?" the sheriff asked levelly.

"Yes," Jim said, just as blunt. "Why?" 

A wry grin. "Your captain gave us a heads-up. Said we should keep an eye out, just in case." 

*****

Firm Deputy Director Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III, code-named Archangel, glared at the phone on his desk.

Sorting through Firm reports from most urgent to can-wait, Marella Duval pushed a strand of wavy dark hair behind her ear. Tan hands twisted on her superior's silver-headed cane, his white suit bunched over tense shoulders, and his one good eye squinted at the receiver as if he'd like to drop the whole scrambler-knitted mess onto a B-52 target range. She held back a sigh. "You might as well call them."

"I'm not Hawke."

"Anybody can get a hunch, Michael." She flipped through an agent's transmission from Bolivia, noted points that needed further follow-up. Cast a serious glance at her boss. "You won't be able to sleep if you don't." 

"It's not bothering me now." 

Trained to keep her head when the bombs were flying, Marella didn't so much as flick an eyelid. Ever since that dogfight over Edwards, Michael had been twitchy. He claimed it was due to being dragged along on yet another of Hawke's hair-raising escapes; an after-dark flight through a radar net, helicopters on search-and-destroy, and half the remaining fighter planes on the West Coast. Nothing out of the ordinary for those who flew the most hunted helicopter on the planet. 

__

A case of nerves doesn't give you hunches, Michael, Marella thought. _Or blinding migraines_. She stared through the folder in her hands, casting her mind back to her debriefing of the Airwolf crew.

__

JcontrolA3 target acquired. Bethancourt defensive protocols engaged.

A target and protocols those who'd flown Airwolf for almost three years had never seen before. 

But Marella had. If only in a computer simulation. 

"Let me get this straight, Dr. Bethancourt," she'd asked the blonde programmer, a few weeks before Airwolf's trial run. "You've designed in this capability without Committee approval?" 

Dr. Jane Bethancourt had tossed her a sour, cynical look. Papers were scattered through the programmer's cramped office, weighted down by bits of equipment that whirred and glowed. "We know the French and the former Soviet republics have access to these kinds of capabilities. We think the Chinese do. And Deity only knows what the Middle East has cooked up. We all know it _could_ be done." She jabbed a thumb at the paper atop her desk; a scholarly, well-written work by Drs. Venkman, Stantz, and Spengler, that had been throw out by every psychology and physics journal in the country. "And when someone dares to tell the truth, we all lie about it."

"Psychic phenomena-" Marella started, half-laughing.

"Exist," Bethancourt said flatly. "I don't care what the Committee will or won't approve. I'm not sending my baby out there to get taken down by the first gremlin that looks at her cross-eyed."

__

Her baby? Marella had thought Moffet was in charge of the programming. But then, it wouldn't be the first time that egomaniac had taken credit for other people's work. "So what exactly will this do?"

"Protect the crew. And the computer." Storm shutters slid down behind gray eyes. "I'm still hashing out the details. You'll have a full report in another month." 

Three weeks later, Moffet threw missiles into Red Star.

Marella turned a page, surreptitiously watching her boss fight not to pick up the phone. _This isn't just a hunch_. "If you don't call them, I will." 

Growling, Michael punched in a number he knew by heart. Waited, knuckles pale on the edge of the desk, as it rang. "Caitlin?" Some tension went out of white-clad shoulders. "You're all right? Where's Hawke?" A frown. "What statement?"

Marella waited through what seemed to be a long and convoluted explanation, given the confusion, astonishment and exasperation that flitted across Archangel's face. "Call me if you think it's anything else." Shaking his head, he hung up. "Would you believe a biker brawl?"

When it came to String's crew, she'd believe almost anything. "Will they be able to fly tonight?" They had a pick-up in the Arctic Circle that couldn't wait.

"Caitlin, not Hawke," Michael reminded her. "She'd have said if they couldn't."

True. "Who were they helping?" 

"No one," Archangel said thoughtfully. "That's the odd part. They were just there." 

Very odd. Airwolf's crew didn't usually attract trouble. They attracted people who were _in_ trouble, and things went downhill from there. "What else?"

Michael hesitated. "Caitlin... just got off the phone with Dominic before I called. He... had a bad feeling." 

__

Too, Marella finished silently.

Enough was enough. She scribbled a quick note on the Bolivian report, dropped it into the basket for Research to handle. Leaned back in her chair, booting up her laptop. 

__

Search: Dr. Jane Bethancourt.

*****

A bruised man in brown leather glanced about to make sure he was unwatched, fed coins into one of Cold Creek's few pay phones. Punching in a number, he waited for the click. "Ligero." 

"Progress?" 

Ligero shivered at the clinical chill of his current boss' voice. How his targets had picked up Elliot as an enemy he didn't know. Truth be told, he didn't _want_ to know. "The rainmakers had some sunshine come their way." 

"Local interference?" In a lesser man, it might have been surprise. "Official?" 

"Didn't start that way." Ligero tongued a loose tooth. "We're still on track." He didn't know where his targets were right now. But he'd find them. 

"Don't underestimate Ellison." Blunt words held more frost than any growl could. "If you can't make it accidental, put them down."

"Understood." 

*****

__

Links on standby.   
Fluctuations within nominal parameters.   
Psychic scans indicate low-level anxiety, consistent across valid links.   
Probable cause: Upcoming mission.

Airwolf breathed an electronic sigh of relief. A mission was a better measure of her pilots' health than any reading through her unstable links. Hawke and the others knew better than to fly injured. 

Those few times they had.... 

A trickle of comfort filtered through her transceiver. Three of her pilots, relaxed and aware, heading toward her hidden cave. 

Bringing systems up from standby, Airwolf ran systems diagnostics, checking fuel and ammo loads. Reached out through a satellite uplink, just in case someone at Knightsbridge had left any stray files unsecured that might relate to her mission. 

She didn't want to keep the wind waiting. 

*****

"Aww, she's so _cute_...." Skuld's smile turned sappy.

AN AVENGING WARRIOR, ARMED TO THE TEETH, CAPABLE OF TAKING OUT HALF A CITY WITHOUT EVEN TRYING HARD. AND YOU THINK SHE'S _CUTE?_

"Well, she _is_."

*****

Monofilament line stretched taut, making an almost-invisible loop around a gnarled twig. Ligero tied off the knot with delicate care. There. One tripwire, leading to one small shaped charge, which should be just enough to blow a pair of tires and send two men unfamiliar with this road off the tree-cloaked cliff. 

Not accidental. But it would do the job. 

"They're coming." 

Ligero backed off from the tripwire, grim smile on his bruised face. _Let's see you miss this one_.

*****

__

Trailhead, trailhead, Jim thought, paging through the local map they'd picked up courtesy of the Cold Creek General Store. Apparently there were all kinds of roads leading off into the forest edges, ranging from gravel-paved to wheel ruts. Two or three looked like good prospects for a day hike, leading near what the store clerk swore were good trout streams.

"Oh, wow!" Blair rapped his shoulder, eyes caught by the play of afternoon sunlight through conifer needles. Gold edged every leaf, spreading an amber glow over a host of wildflowers. "Stop the truck, man. I've _got_ to get a picture."

Shrugging, Ellison pulled onto the shoulder. It'd be hours before full dark. Blair could spend a few minutes playing shutterbug.

*****

"Anthony," Urthr snarled. "It had to be Anthony." She propped her chin on her hand. "Probably made a deal with Barbara - those two have been getting _awfully_ cozy-"

ANTHONY OR NO, THERE'S NO WAY YOU SHOULD HAVE MISSED TWICE.

"Well, we wouldn't have, except-"

*****

"You two got a lotta nerve, getting into that mess without me," Dominic Santini railed, hands waving as he drove. The elderly mechanic had his red silk cap jammed almost low enough to touch dark brows, squinting into the afternoon sun. "_Marrone!_ Could've got yourselves killed."

"Wheel," String pointed out. 

"Hunh! I was drivin' before you were a gleam in your mother's eye." Hands still off the steering wheel, Dom used a knee to steer his jeep around the rented pickup at the side of the road. "Tourists." 

String raised an eyebrow at the curly-haired young man snapping photos. "Them again." 

"Seem to be okay guys. Curve," Caitlin reminded them both. 

"Like I haven't driven this road a hundred times - _Santa Maria!_" Dom stomped the brakes, screeching to a halt just before a suspicious patch of gravel. 

Three pairs of eyes regarded the spiderweb gleam of monofilament, tracing a translucent path where their wheels would have rolled. 

To most onlookers, the line would have been invisible two feet away.

To those in the jeep, it might as well have been glowing neon.

Without a word, Dom threw it into reverse. String broke out small arms from the glovebox, reached into the back for a rifle. Hitting speed-dial, Caitlin accepted her automatic. "Hey, Phoebe?" A smile crooked her lips as she tucked the phone against her ear. "Yeah, Le says hi. We were just there. Don't suppose you could send the rangers out this way? We've got a problem...."

*****

"Local, state, rangers," Jim ticked off the cars parked ahead, most of which had whipped past in the last fifteen minutes. "K-9... what the heck?" 

A green-uniformed ranger waved them to a halt. "Sorry, gentlemen. You'll have to turn around." 

Blair leaned toward the driver's side. "What's going on, officer?" 

"Problem with the road," the young ranger said professionally. "If you'll just swing around here...." 

Catching a whiff of a too-familiar scent, Jim nodded. "We'll do that." No hike was worth this kind of trouble.

"Jim?" his partner asked in an undertone. 

"C-4, Chief." He glanced back, where even Blair could make out Hawke's dark blond head near O'Shannessy's coppery locks. "Somebody doesn't like those guys." 

*****

"Anyway, skipping ahead," Urthr started.

WHY SKIP AHEAD?

A trio of uneasy glances. "Ummm...." 

YOU LET THEM GET TO THE WOODS, AND THEN?

"Right," Verthandi babbled. "The woods. Where we let them get. Ah-" 

THIS WOULDN'T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH THAT CARD GAME EXPEDITO HAD TO BREAK UP, WOULD IT?

"Well...."

"Oh, come _on_," Skuld burst out. "You know how hard it is to coax Hathor out of a slump about that bimbo who goes around using her name. And it's been almost forever since the Horsemen dropped by. We were just catching up." 

CATCHING UP WITH CARDS, DICE, TWELVE GALLONS OF ROMULAN ALE, AND ENOUGH SILK ROPE TO HOG-TIE LEVIATHAN?

Urthr gulped. "He... um, told you about that?"

HE LEFT OUT THE ROPE.

"Way to go, sis," Verthandi muttered. 

__

IF YOU'RE FINISHED.... 

Three forms jerked to attention. 

SO. LONG STORY SHORT, YOU LOST THEM. 

"Just for a _little _while..." 

*****

Blair leaned against a rough-barked oak, daypack cushioning his shoulders, breathing in sweet, green-scented air. Granted, this was way too early to be up; he could still see stars in the east, shrouded by the few clouds that were all that was left of the evening's rain shower. But contrary to all his expectations, their night in the Angeles Forest had been calm. Peaceful. No bears, no stray psychopaths, not even an avalanche to bury their campsite in boulders. 

Jim stood on the mossy stream bank, flicking his lure out over cold water. An almost smug smile played over his face as a dark swirl took his bait. "Told you nothing would go wrong." 

Blair winced. _We're doomed_.

*****

"...I mean, he was just _asking_ for it," Verthandi sighed. "So-" she flung out her hand, as if letting fly with the meanest spitball ever slimed, "We let him have it." 

THAT'S NOT WHAT THIS SAYS.

Urthr tugged at the collar of her robe. "Well, um, we, er-"

DON'T TELL ME....

Skuld wiped off a giant sweat-drop. "Stream, jetstream, what's the diff?"

ABOUT 50,000' OF ALTITUDE.

*****

"Son of a - String, you're not gonna believe this." 

Cracking open a tired eye, Hawke peered at the IR view Dominic had put up on the monitors. Caitlin was flying from Airwolf's right seat; they'd been switching on and off throughout the long flight home. "Cait, is that what I think it is?" 

"Looks like a cooker," the former Texas Highway Patrol pilot affirmed. She _tch_ed. "Shame on them." 

String saw what she meant; from the IR-Starlight composite, they could make out still-hot shapes that had to be parked Harleys. "Pretty far in for motorcycles." Not that a bunch of maniacs on methamphetamines would care how much damage they did to their bikes.

Blue eyes shot him a look of worried understanding. "Not even half a day's hike, Hawke. No way they could've got to the cabin." 

It helped. But he still worried. Tet was a smart old dog, quick to run when the odds were bad. His nephew Le Van was just as bright - but the kid was just hitting his teens. Not a time common sense kept the upper hand. "Quinn?"

"Probably glaring through his radar gun down toward Van Nuys, this time of night," Dom sighed.

"You know that for sure?" Laughter bubbled in Caitlin's voice. 

String smiled behind his helmet. "Ticket's still in the jeep."

"Hey, when a lady calls, I don't leave her waiting," the elderly mechanic shrugged.

"Was she pretty?"

Dominic patted his console. "She sure is." 

Absently listening to the by-play, String ran through their options. They couldn't call Quinn. Airwolf's radio was in perfect condition, but anyone in the Cold Creek department would recognize voices from Santini Air. Besides, technically this was the park rangers' turf. _Not that we should call them either_, the covert pilot thought. 

They might have called St. John... but right now his brother was somewhere over Russia on a Company mission, which was why Sinj had left Le with String in the first place. His crew probably wouldn't be back for another few hours, and who knew what shape they'd be in when they did get home.

Sometimes being classified could be a real pain. 

Whatever they did, they had to hurry. Archangel's data wouldn't wait. "Think they'll hang around long enough for us to get back here with Dom's bird?" 

"No way are you taking my chopper over that pack of muscle-bound thugs, String." 

Breath hissed between Caitlin's teeth. "Don't think we can wait that long, anyway." She pointed to the monitor. "Can't be sure, but looks like they're just about done mixing this batch. Just a little longer to cook, and then..."

Meth all over Van Nuys. With probably a hefty bunch dumped in Cold Creek, just for laughs. _Not in my town_. "Guess we do this the hard way." 

*****

Squirming trout in hand, Jim paused. "Did you hear something?"

Blair deftly snagged the fish. "Outside of you and breakfast? No." Trout secure, he peered the direction Jim was listening. "What did it sound like?"

"Like a - howl," the sentinel said slowly. 

"Wolf?" Teal eyes widened; the anthropologist glanced about the underbrush as if expecting a pack to appear out of thin air. 

"No. Well, almost," Jim corrected himself, listening closer. "It's faint. Sort of metallic-"

Gunfire's roar ripped through his ears.

*****

"So we got their track just before dark," Slash told his employer. A greasy man whose straggly beard was tied to his vest to keep it from blowing in his face, his eyes glittered at the prospect of picking off the man who'd hospitalized two of his boys. "Soon's it gets light enough, we'll find 'em." 

"What about the rain?"

Slash picked stained teeth. "Little shower like that? They're city boys, Lige. They won't be hard to find." 

"Good." Mollified by the prospect of finally raking in Sandburg and Ellison, Ligero left the makeshift tent over the meth lab. He coughed quietly, clearing toxic fumes from his lungs. An inevitable hazard of doing business with this gang; though he, at least, had the sense to wear a facemask under the tarp. Unlike most of this crew. 

A whisper of sound caught his attention. Faint, far off; like a lonely wind through power lines, a banshee keening for those about to die.... 

A demon howled out of the sky, thunder roaring from its wings. 

*****

Sparks flew, bullets _spang_ing off black carbide. The first burst from the cannons had sent most of the bikers running for the road, but a few lingered to fire back at the hovering nightmare.

String ignored them, holding Airwolf a hand's-breadth above the trees as he angled another burst of cannon fire down. Instrument view let him place every round where he wanted it; blasting finished meth tablets into flying powder and bikes into metal shrapnel. Enough havoc to draw Quinn's attention to this patch of woods, without slaughtering the bikers outright. 

"That's it," Dom muttered, watching bright drops flare on his screen; white-hot bullets, tracking the stubborn bikers. "Just a little farther...."

__

Combatants clear of calculated blast radius, scrolled across Tactical.

Cait chuckled. "Nice thing about meth labs-"

String fired one last stream of rounds. 

Fire roared into the sky, blasting tarp, metal, and glass in all directions. Green and purple flames licked up and out, twisting plastic buckets into sizzling lumps of burning blue. Blazing liquid spattered within inches of the idiots on the ground, igniting those few fallen leaves that weren't damp with rain. 

"They're explosive."

*****

DID YOU _HAVE _TO BLOW IT UP?

"It wouldn't be Sandburg and Ellison without an explosion _somewhere_," Urthr pointed out. 

SIGH.

*****

Coughing, Ligero crawled out from under a fallen oak limb. Crouched low, he staggered to his hidden dirtbike. Old habit of working in the shadows; always have a way out your so-called allies don't know about. 

Old habits died hard. Fortunately. 

The banshee keen faded into the distance, covered by the crackle of flames. 

Paralleling the road as sirens started to wail, Ligero shook the ringing out of his ears. Elliot could find someone else to take out the Cascade cops. Ligero had more important matters to take care of... like breathing. 

__

What the hell was that? 

*****

"Well." Sheriff Quinn looked over the unhappy pair of campers as his deputies helped park rangers corral meth-contaminated bikers. Branches were torn and shattered, Harleys were wrecked masses of metal, and a tarp still smoldered in the middle of the clearing. A sour mix of sap and chemicals hung heavy in the air, clogging lungs and throats. "Fancy meeting you gentlemen again." 

Blair tried not to glare at the sheriff. It wasn't Quinn's fault he'd had to talk down a snarling sentinel from explosion-induced deafness. Though it would be his fault if Jim went into a chemical-induced fit. "What _happened?_" 

To his credit, the sheriff walked them upwind of the site. Blair just hoped it was soon enough. "Looks like these gentlemen had themselves an accident." 

Jim picked up a shattered tree limb. Sniffed at sap-edged splinters. "Accidents come with aircraft fire around here, Sheriff?" 

"Aircraft fire?" There was a strange calm in those words, Blair thought, totally at odds with the careful scrutiny he now felt from the older cop. _He knows_, the anthropologist knew suddenly. _He knows what did this._

"30 or 40 mm, I'd say." Jim touched the splinters, feeling the circumference of the blast. "Explosive." The detective raised a brow. "Somebody with a grudge stray over from Edwards?" 

"Not exactly." Quinn glanced back toward the rangers, checking they were out of earshot. "Look. Your captain said if there were anything strange going on around here, you two would wind up smack in the middle of it." A pause. "He also said you don't talk." 

"You know who did this." 

Quinn snorted. "Don't know much about Cold Creek, do you?" At Jim's curious look, he shrugged. "Town runs on flying, Detective. Those who don't work in Van Nuys work for it, one way or another. Outside of you, your partner, and those idiots over there, anybody over legal age's got their license. Most of 'em have at least two - fixed-wing and rotary." 

"Including you?" Blair dared to ask.

Quinn chuckled. "Including me. Lucky for me, I've got an alibi." Some of the humor vanished. "You ever hear any stories about black helicopters?" 

"Urban folklore," Blair spoke up, when his partner shook his head. "Supposed to have started back in the seventies, all over the West. There's an interesting correlation between supposed black helicopter sightings and UFO reports which has led some people to theorize the two are facets of the same phenomena; either similar influences on what people thought they saw, or an actual conspiracy involving both aircraft...." He trailed off at the sheriff's look of stunned amazement. "Um. Sorry. It really is an interesting sociological phenomenon. The stories, I mean." 

"They're not all stories, Dr. Sandburg," Quinn said after a moment. "Not around here."

Jim let the branch drop. "We're listening." 

The sheriff stared back at the clearing, took off his hat to run a hand through thinning hair. "Edwards calls her Angel. Pendleton calls her the Ghost of the Coast. Seen her once myself, soaring out of the sunrise like a shard of night gone wandering...." He shook his head. "Beautiful."

"A black helicopter." Jim's voice wasn't - quite - skeptical. 

"About fifty feet long, at least forty of it rotors," Quinn confirmed. "Jet black, sleek as a shark... and you point a radar gun at her, she just isn't there." A wry smile. "Not just police equipment, you understand. _Edwards_ couldn't see her - and in that mix-up a few months back, they were trying." A chuckle. "And they keep trying. Pilot has a sense of humor," he added at the partners' look of incomprehension. "Every once in a while he'll go buzz an F-15. For the hell of it, far as anyone can tell." 

"Eagles eat helicopters," Jim argued. 

"Not if they can't catch 'em." 

Jim let out a silent whistle. "Sounds covert." 

"What I figure." 

Blair traded a glance with his partner. "So what makes you think the pilot's here?" he asked.

"Hell, I don't know who the pilot is," Quinn shrugged. "But whoever it is, is probably government. I'm not planning on sticking my nose in someplace it could get shot off." He tipped his hat. "Enjoy your vacation, gentlemen." 

Blair waited until the sheriff strolled out of earshot. "He knows?" 

"He's pretty sure," Jim confirmed. The sentinel cocked an ear toward the radio chatter; grimaced as abused hearing complained. "He wouldn't be so quick to drop it if he didn't."

Blair had been around cops long enough to follow that particular train of logic. "But he doesn't have any evidence."

"Better not." Jim's lips were set in a thin, sour line. "It's still vigilantism." 

The offspring of a woman willing to chain herself to a tree under the right circumstances, Blair let that slide. 

"One way or another, there's too many secrets around here for me," Jim sighed. "You were right, partner. Let's go home." 

Blair bounced to collect his pack, finally shaking the sense of doom that had hung over him these past few days. But one thing still bothered him. "Ah, Jim. Don't F-15s break the speed of sound?" 

"Yeah." The ex-Army Ranger shrugged. "I'd say they've been ordered not to catch him. Which means Quinn is probably right. He's covert."

"Or he really is that fast."

Jim chuckled. "Then he'd definitely be covert." He clapped his partner on the shoulder. "Relax, Blair. There isn't a helicopter made that can break the sound barrier."

*****

"About time." Out of sight of Knightsbridge, Archangel raised a hand to block Airwolf's downwash from his face. Dust pattered off the back of his knuckles, stinging in a stray paper cut. _Too much paper-pushing_.... 

A lean figure in gray and black stepped out of the pilot's side, scanning the clearing for any surprises the sensors might have missed. He didn't take off his helmet. 

The white-clad spy stalked under howling blades, ignoring his knee's complaints. Pain would always be there. The lives this data might save wouldn't be.

Hawke met him halfway. Strong fingers plucked a plastic CD case from inside his flightsuit. "We're going to head in." Shadowed eyes gave him a frank once-over. "Put that knee up when you can." 

From anyone else, that would've been an insult._ Long night for all of us_, Michael thought, noting the slight slump to gray-clad shoulders as he took the disk. "Any problems?" 

"Usual." Which could mean anything from deadly neurotoxins to stray nukes, coming from Hawke. "Quinn's going to have a busy day." 

__

Get Marella to pull today's Cold Creek incident reports, Archangel made a mental note. "Please tell me there aren't any warrants out." 

Blue eyes crinkled under the helmet; a hidden smile. "No bodies." 

Well, that was a relief.

Michael lingered a moment in the downwash, watching sleek darkness soar into the first light of dawn. He could tear into Hawke until Doomsday about what covert agents were and weren't supposed to do with Firm property. Lecture Caitlin about taking the law into her own hands. Rail at Dominic for not showing the sense of a man half his age.... 

And none of it would make a damn bit of difference. Airwolf's crew would still poke into anything that touched off that idealistic nerve. 

He wouldn't trust her to anyone else.

*****

"...So you see, it really wasn't our fault," Urthr finished.

I SEE.

Three breaths of relief. 

I SEE YOU OUGHT TO BE DUMPED IN ACHERON CHAINED TO LEAD WEIGHTS. OF ALL THE IDIOTIC, INANE, _IMBECILIC_ STUNTS- 

A chorus of gulps. "But Boss-" Verthandi wailed.

UNFORTUNATELY, IT'S NOT MY DECISION.

The Fates looked at each other. "It's not?" Urthr ventured.

NO. Suspicious calm. BY INTERFERING WITH AIRWOLF, YOU'VE MANAGED TO PUT YOURSELVES OUTSIDE OF MY JURISDICTION.

A triplet of shaky smiles. Skuld's went so far as to be a grin. 

AND INTO _HERS_.

A swirl of blue robes. A waft of raven feathers. A warmer, softer light, that still held the sharp brilliance of upraised swords.

Urthr blanched. Verthandi gulped. Skuld blinked rapidly, managed a weak smile - and keeled over in a dead faint.

GO GET 'EM, MOM!

*****

Parting note: Yes, Airwolf has a new Lair. Check out "Things Aren't Always What They Seem" by Mary Anne Espenshade at www.inwap.com/u/mae/aw_things.html 

It's the best way to make the first 3 seasons agree with the 4th.

Police officers fall under the protection of Michael the Archangel, Anthony the Abbot covers anthropologists, and Barbara looks out for those who work with explosives. As aviators and rescuers of those in deadly danger, Airwolf's crew fall under Mary's protection. (Or the Morrigan's. The Phantom Queen's quite appropriate for a covert helicopter.) As she's the Queen of Angels, I'd say she's a bit higher up on the celestial food chain. Unfortunately for the Fates....


End file.
